


take me back (to the night we met)

by seoafin



Series: nightlight [5]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: (not) coping with loss, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jealousy, Kissing in the Rain, Love Triangle, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Oof here we go, Rooftops, Sharing a Bed, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, canon? never heard of her, ending is implied jason/reader but open to interpretation!!, just the slightest sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:55:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25394227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seoafin/pseuds/seoafin
Summary: "Jason was—""There?""Oh Dick," you say softly, and your eyes are sad. "Not like that."—nightlight AU
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd/Reader, Dick Grayson/Reader, Jason Todd/Reader
Series: nightlight [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/594772
Comments: 4
Kudos: 76





	take me back (to the night we met)

**Author's Note:**

> i read like two chapters of grayson, like once, three years ago so don't take anything as canon, i gleaned the plot from the chapters i skimmed and the wiki and forgot it all lol 
> 
> to be clear i hated grayson bc the way it portrayed dick was...awful...the whole thing between him and poppy and helena was so weird. esp when he talks about how important barbara is to him...like...? 
> 
> dick grayson is not a playboy!!! he may act like it but he cries during sex!!
> 
> so fuck it! canon's my bitch and i do what i want!!

Dick is dead.

You watch the funeral procession from a distance, numb as the crowd of people mourn, and the flash of the cameras from a distance is blinding. You can already see what headlines will dominate the news tomorrow:

**WARD OF BRUCE WAYNE EXPOSED AS NIGHTWING**

You're watching Bruce Wayne walk up to the podium and then—

You blink and it's over. 

The cemetery is empty and night has fallen.

You faintly register a shuffle behind you of someone purposely not masking their footsteps but you continue to stare at Dick's gravestone.

"Thought you were here," Jason says, voice quiet. His hand flexes at his side before coming up to your shoulder.

The two of you stand there for the rest of the night in silence.

* * *

One day, the disjointed fragments of your memory from that day will come back to you. 

* * *

You drift from country to country as a ghost.

Tokyo. France. Amsterdam. Egypt. Germany. Baghdad. 

Those are the places you remember.

You start taking hits. Politicians tied to child trafficking rings. Corrupt diplomats. Government officials involved in the meta black market.

It keeps you sane. The familiarity. It makes you feel functional again, normal even. You have a purpose because there is no shortage of bad people in the world. But this isn't really normal, and you can see Dick's disapproval in your mind's eye. The way his eyebrows crease, lips flattened. 

Sometimes, if you close your eyes, you can feel the brush of his lips against yours, his thumb tracing the curve of your face.

You're tired of these memories.

Jason leaves messages, but you haven't checked your voicemail in weeks. It's equal parts shame and...fear. You're afraid you won't be able to stop. This is the very worst part of you, and you're loathe to show it to anybody else. 

You traverse the world, then wait and wait and wait for the shock to finally hit you that there will be nobody waiting for you when you come home, that you don't _have_ a home anymore, but it never comes. You are numb and indifferent.

Dick is dead and you are fine. 

You wipe the blood off your face as you sit on a rooftop in Tokyo. Your attention is drawn to your phone when it lights up, and you take it out of your pocket and ignore the blood stains on the screen.

_You have 40 voice messages._

You click on a random message and Jason's voice crackles out.

 _Hey. It's me. Not to sound clingy or anything but...I'm...we're worried about you. The kid misses you._ _He's been real damn mopey._ _I haven't said anything because the kid's got a killer left hook and I prefer breathing, but_ _even B knows something's up. He's been asking about you too, believe it or not, and I don't know how long I can keep him at bay with 'she's just expanding her horizons'_ _..._

_I'll see you soon._

**_Click._ **

You press another. Static.

 _..._ _do **not** patronize me Todd. I know how what a voice message is—...give...phone!...stop hovering over me—!_

_**Click.** _

Another.

_[someone clears their throat]_

_Titus and Pennyworth have been feeling rather down of late. I'm sure a word from you would be...beneficial._ _It's rather taxing to see them brooding around the manor like Todd when he's being '_ angsty'.

_Your presence is...missed._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_I...I appreciate the gifts. Thank you._

**_Click._**

You scroll all the way to the bottom of your inbox, to the first voice message. Your finger briefly hovers. Then you press down and relax as Dick's familiar voice enters your ears. Your throat tightens.

 _I know leaving you messages is kinda useless considering you've probably changed numbers but...since this number's still in service, there's a chance you're listening. I_ _need to know if you're out there, if you're...alive. If it's something I did—_

_..._

_..._

_I'm just going to say it. I love you._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_..._

_[A long, resigned, sigh]_

_I...really didn't want my first time saying that to be over the phone. So put me out of my misery and come home._

_I'd like to say it person._

You close your eyes.

* * *

You're in London, at a charity gala named after some nameless billionaire for shelter animals when you see him.

The people around you in expensive dresses and suits loiter around, drinks in hand. You're standing in front of the bar, idly swirling the olive in your martini and waiting for your mark to arrive when you feel a shiver run down your spine.

Someone is watching you.

Immediately on alert, you straighten and casually run your gaze across the crowd of socialites.

Your eyes catch on blonde hair and blue eyes, but when you try to focus on the man's face, you start to feel lightheaded. He meets your eyes and his smile freezes in place, throat bobbing, expression inexplicable.

Skin buzzing, you narrow your eyes. Blue eyes that crinkle when he's happy. Full lips that you can almost imagine saying your name. Blonde hair that looks... _odd_. As if it's not natural. No— it's a _wig._

and...

and...

There's a hand on your waist, and a greasy voice enters your ears. "You are even more lovely in person."

You almost flinch. It had gotten increasingly hard to get used to how easily touch was traded between people, but instead the corners of your mouth tilt upwards slyly, and the portly, balding man preens. "Hello, Pierce."

A millionaire who struck it rich in the nano tech industry. His shady side business, however, of supplying the Chinese and Russian mob with microchips to track stolen children, had made him a target on your hit list. 

"Is the party to your liking?" He asks, nodding to the passerby who greet him. "There are some people I want to introduce you to..."

"Oh," you say, feigning disappointment, and you bat your eyelashes. "I've been waiting for this night for a while...I was hoping we might...take business somewhere private."

Pierce visibly perks up and you inwardly sigh.

"Somewhere private, hm?" He murmurs, a lecherous smile spreading over his sagging face. His hand slides down and your hand on his shoulder tightens. His smile falters, but he regains his composure with a chuckle. "Well," he says airily. "There are dozens of parties every night, but a beautiful woman like you deserves to be _cherished_."

His eyes rake you up and down appreciatively and they linger on your chest.

"Private meetings are much more my speed anyway. I'll call my car." He offers you a hand. "Shall we?"

You take his hand and the two of you start towards the exit.

You spare a glance back and the man is still there, staring at you—rooted to the same spot, and you've identified the expression on his face.

Longing. 

You blink, taken aback. He's probably _mistaking you_ for someone else. The last thing you see before you turn your head back is a woman with dark curls and even darker eyes approaching the man and putting a hand on his shoulder.

Her head turns and there's a curious gleam in her eyes.

* * *

It takes you six months to step foot in Gotham again.

* * *

"I got your voice messages."

You tracked him down to an abandoned warehouse near the docks.

Jason stills at your voice, head covered by his helmet. One of knocked out goons on the ground stirs at the sound of your voice and Jason kicks him in the head. There's a crack, and the man groans and promptly passes out again.

There's a crackle as his voice modulator starts up. "Oh, those." A pause. "You listened to them?"

"I did." You affirm. "They were...nice."

You stay silent as Jason dials 911. When the sound of sirens approach, he inclines his head. 

"You hungry?" 

* * *

You startle awake when Jason bolts upwards with a gasp, gun in hand. You're up in the next second, and the chair you had positioned right next to his bed scrapes back as you stand.

You wait for him to catch his breath.

"Hey," you say quietly, hovering over his bed.

He's sweating, eyes cloudy and unfocused as he clutches the gun in his hand so tightly his hand is white. He closes his eyes.

"Just a nightmare." He finally says after a few minutes. Then he looks at you, eyebrows creased. "Thought you went home, doll."

The endearment slips out automatically, but if it affects you, you show no indication of it. He's never been able to read you anyway. You're a smooth slate of indifference on most days with a poker face that could rival the stoic mess that is Bruce Wayne. It was only after spending time with you—looking at your face— that he could now discern the slightest difference in your moods, the easiest being mild annoyance.

It's your eyes that give you away. You're less guarded around him now, and those eyes that used to be cold and unflinching are warm. 

His eyes land on your chair. You must have dozed off, and it bothers him less than it should.

"Sorry about that. I wanted to make sure you were alright."

He tosses the gun on the floor, acutely aware of your close proximity. Patrol had been surprisingly tame, courtesy of Bruce and the brat no doubt. A broken rib and some bruising that was going to hurt like a bitch in the morning.

It could be worse, but he still tenses. He hates the way you look at him, especially when you look at him like that. It's not the same look he gets from Bruce and occasionally used to get from Dick when he was, well, being a dick. That look was condescending and chafing, and he'd rather get kneecapped than listen to the accompanying speech reeking of self righteousness on being a little too trigger happy with scumbags that deserve it.

The way you look at him is earnest, like you _care_ about him, and that's dangerous because then he starts thinking things he shouldn't about his dead brother's girl, like how you would look splayed out on his bed and other thoughts he's only entertained in his dreams. 

Shit.

"No need to apologize. Should've told me, I would've taken the couch," he grumbles dragging his gaze away to burn a hole into the floor.

"It's been a while since I've slept." You confess, and you sit down on the side of the bed, just far enough that he has space to breath. He looks up, and you hesitate. "I have nightmares too."

He knows. He might have been half dead, but he still remembers the gentle pressure of your hands and the blurry outline of your face.

 _I have nightmares too,_ you had whispered, seemingly ages ago, in that shitty Bludhaven apartment you shared with Dick while he had been bleeding out in your lap. 

The silence weighs heavy in the room. You look solemn, the darkness partially masking your face, but you soldier on. "Sometimes it's about my childhood or" —your voice hitches just slightly— "the people I've killed..." Your face shutters closed. "It helps. Talking about it. I used to talk about mine with..."

You eyes go empty before you close your eyes.

"It was the Joker." He forces out because he can't stand seeing you sad. The name wrests a physical reaction in him as he tries not to recoil as images of his nightmare rise to the surface.

"It's that damn laughter—" he says roughly, and now he's breathing heavily, hands clammy because he remembers the taste of copper in his mouth, the blistering pain; his right eye is swollen shut, he's numb all over, and he's _scared_. This is more than jumping off rooftops and doling out justice to gangbangers with B at his side.

This is a matter of life and death, and he's all alone. 

There's an ear splitting cackle, but his eyes are swollen shut and his heart slams his chest so hard his ribs rattle.

_THIS IS GOING TO HURT **YOU** A LOT MORE THAN IT DOES **ME** KIDDO **!**_

"—right before he bashes my fucking face in with that _crowbar_ —"

"Jason." You lay your hand over his and your touch jolts him out of the memory, his heart pounding in his chest. "You don't have to force yourself to talk it about it. I just wanted to let you know that I'm here if you want to talk."

Before you get up, your thumb brushes over his wrist and he thinks his heart might stop. "I'll get some water."

He can hear your footsteps outside, and when you return your movements are unusually sluggish as you place a cup of water of the nightstand. You look like you're about to kneel over from exhaustion.

He frowns. "When's the last time you actually slept?"

You shift on your feet, and he stares at you.

"More than a couple hours?" There's a slight frown on your face as you try to recall. "A week ago...I think. It's easier when I'm...tired."

"Jesus."

And he thought Bruce barely slept. He doesn't remember much from when he was still Robin, curtesy of getting his brains beat into scrambled eggs by the Joker, but he can still remember how Bruce got when he was single-mindedly swept up in case.

The man had been a barely functioning paranoid workaholic who had regarded sleep as a waste of time, but even he stressed its importance, if the nightly curfews were anything to go by.

"Stay the night."

He knows you can take care of yourself, but he doesn't like the idea of you going out this time of night; doesn't like you thought of you...alone.

"I don't—" You go silent, and you look away. "It's hard to sleep unless there's someone..."

Oh.

You open your mouth.

"Take the bed. I can take the floor." He's slept on worse.

You reply immediately. "No." Then you soften, "I couldn't. I should lea—"

"It's five in the morning," he says pointedly. "I'd be a shit host if I let you leave. Alfred would have my ass on a platter."

"Then I'll take the floor."

He scoffs, and you fix him with a stare that can't be anything but exasperation.

He clears his throat because words are failing him, and he can't believe he's doing this but, "...You could sleep. Here. If you're comfortable." He manages to fumble out, and maybe he shouldn't have said that because now you're looking at him, face unreadable and now his heart is racing for an entirely different reason, and _fuck._

You study him, head tilted. He doesn't even have a gun in his hand, and he feels more exposed than he'd like, but then your face breaks as your lips twitch. "Are _you?"_

He huffs, and he hopes it masks his nerves. "There are worse things," he replies dryly.

The two of you share a smile, and your whole face brightens. Even in the dark, you stand out.

He'd forgotten how pretty you look when you smile.

"So how do you wan—"

You shoot him something that looks startling close to affection, and his mouth goes dry. Then you fluidly slip underneath the covers on the other side of the bed like you've been doing this for ages. His heart skips a beat.

You look so small underneath the covers as you peer up at him.  
  
"Good night Jason." You murmur.

He must have said something because almost immediately after your eyes fall closed. You're out like a light, and the rise and fall of your chest is reassuring. He doesn't remember the last time someone said good night to him.

A reassuring hand combing back his hair. Talia?

Somebody carrying him up to his room. Bruce?

A woman crying. His mother?

Your face is the last thing he sees before his eyes fall closed.

* * *

It becomes a regular occurrence, and he's not sure he wants it to stop, but it feels like betrayal.

* * *

You might be dying.

Blood pours out of the bullet wound in your chest, onto the cracked pavement where you lie. You can feel an ache bloom in ribs, and every time you take a breath, pain shoots through your body, paralyzing you. 

A mistake. You had seen it coming. The man had raised the gun. You saw him pull the trigger and you faltered. Before you could blink, he had emptied a round of bullets in your chest, and you barely registered yourself falling.

This is where you die. In a foreign city, somewhere far, far away from the cold of where you were raised, of where you were molded into a killer.

Your vision blurs. The sound of shouts and sprays of bullets being fired, along with sirens. Your ear is ringing, and you're about to close your eyes when a hand on your shoulder jolts you awake.

A figure descends on you and all you can make out is dark hair and blue eyes, and for a moment Jason looks so much like _Dick—_ it feels like someone stabbed you and twisted the knife in your chest, and the metaphorical pain is so much worse than anything else you've ever experienced. 

You vaguely wonder where his helmet is.

"Look at me," Jason says urgently, and his eyes are so _blue_ and wild with panic as he gently pushes the hair out of your sweaty face. _"You have to stay awake."_

Your mouth works, but nothing comes out.

_You should have let me die._

"Shallow breaths," he mutters as he scoops you into his arms. "That's it, sweetheart."

You're shivering from the blood loss. A few more minutes and you would have bled out. 

" _Jason_ ," you croak, and you think you might cry. He glances down, and you meet his gaze, and he _knows_ that you're hurting more than words can say. You want to tell him you're sorry for disappointing him, for everything, but a choked sob wracks your body violently as you cough up blood, and you might be imagining it but Jason holds you even tighter.

You can't remember the last time you've cried. It seems fitting that you're about to die.

Jason gives you a sharp look. "You're not going to die. Don't take a page out of my book and joke about it either."

What leaves your mouth is a watery laugh. Your fingers are numb and your head feels split open as you feel the full brunt of a year's grief. It hurts more than the bullets. This pain is heart wrenching and all consuming.

You hurt and hurt and hurt and you don't know what to do. 

You fingers graze his leather jacket weakly, trying to grab his attention. 

"Jason...I..." You struggle to form the words, but they won't leave your mouth. So many words, so little time. Jason's presence is unyielding and solid and _familiar._ You don't know what you would have done without him. "Dick...he..." You don't know why, but you have to tell him. You want him to know. Dick is gone and you don't know if you'll ever be okay, but you might be. 

Dick is _gone,_ and you don't want to think about it, but you have to. 

He glances down, and his face is set in grim lines. He _knows_. Then your face is wet, and you don't know if it's the blood loss or adrenaline or pain, but you might be crying. 

He looks pained, but he doesn't say anything as you bury your face into his chest and crumble in his arms.

* * *

"I'm so sorry," Dick says, and he looks so genuinely upset that you don't know what to do.

You stare at him. "I went to your funeral."

He winces, and discomfort is written all over his face. "It was better for everyone to know I was dead."

You stare at him blankly. "Did Bruce know?"

No, wrong question. Of course, Bruce knew. You thought something had been off about his movements that day. Too practiced, too smooth. The perfect picture of mourning, and everybody had been too caught up in their own grief to notice.

"Bruce was the one who told me not to risk it," he reaches for you and you stay frozen on the spot. His hand curls around yours, and where you might have once found comfort in the touch, there's only a whisper. "Not to risk _you_. Spyral reached out to me after my identity was revealed. They offered me a job and it's—it's _dangerous_."

You close your eyes. "I'd like to know everything. Please."

Dick's gaze is searching as he scans your face, eyebrows creased—gently probing as he waits for you to say anything else. To be angry or upset or _anything_. But that would require vulnerability, and you don't think you can handle what that entails right now so you stay silent.

"Okay." He says, and you see his shoulders set in preparation. "Where to start?"

Bruce. Agent 37. Spyral. Betrayal. Helena. Double Agent.

Words come out of his mouth but it's all white noise and static. You bury the information somewhere deep in the recesses of your mind, for when you'll be able to process it later, or maybe never at all.

Logically, you know that it was necessary to let everyone believe that he was dead. Logically, you know that one's feelings shouldn't get in the way of the mission.

Logically, you know there's no basis for your hurt.

But Dick made you weak and vulnerable and everything you should have never been. He had drawn out the parts of yourself you had buried to survive— _loved them_ —and then he had left you with the pieces.

_Greedy._

"I'm glad you're alive," you finally say when he finishes, and your voice is barely audible.

"I didn't want to leave you in the dark. You don't know how much I wanted to see you." A lopsided grin. "Helena called me a lovesick fool."

You exhale. Pain ricochets through your shoulder and you raise a hand to the bandages wrapped around your wounds. Dick's eyes narrow at the white peeking out of your shirt and you jerk your hand down.

"What happ—"

"Nothing."

Dick frowns at your rejection, a glimmer of hurt passing through those blue eyes you love, and you swallow the lump in the throat and ignore the way your stomach drops. There's a look on his face and you know that look—

"I have to leave."

"I know."

You sense someone behind you and Dick's demeanor hardens as he locks eyes with them.

"I'll be back in a couple of weeks." Then he hesitates, jaw working. His lips start on the word 'I' and you tear away before you can see his face fall.

There's only silence and unsaid words when Dick turns to leave.

"Dick..." He stops in his tracks. Licking your lips, you briefly close your eyes. "I'm glad you're here. I wasn't lying when I said I'm glad you're alive." You reach out to palm his cheek, and it feels too intimate now, but Dick's face lights up with a breathtaking, delighted smile that has your heart squeezing. "I—I just need time."

He tenderly tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, and you remember bleeding out on the pavement and the calluses on Jason's hand against your face.

Jason hadn't been wearing his gloves. He must have taken them off. Why wasn't he wearing them?

"—I'll make it up to you when I get back, I promise."

And then just as quickly and quietly as he had returned, he's gone. Tucked in the shadow of a skyscraper a couple buildings from you there is a woman in cargo pants and a black and white shirt. She's too far away for you to make out her face, but those inquisitive dark eyes are uncannily familiar—

Oh.

* * *

"I'm sorry," he says, and Dick's voice reverberates in your head over and over and over—

_That's not enough._

* * *

**_Sometime a year ago._ **

It's gone.

Dick frowns, eyes scanning over his belongings. Outside, he can hear the girls of St. Hadrian's Finishing School for Girls walking the courtyard, chattering about the weekend's homework, and the new hot gay gymnastics teacher. Jason would have a field day if he knew.

It was right here, tucked into his pillowcase. Both a sentimental souvenir and a weakness.

Bruce would disapprove if he knew, but Dick allows himself the shortcoming. After all, he's not Bruce, and he refuses to shut out the people closest to him. The line between who he was as Dick Grayson and Nightwing was always stark, but as Agent 37 he's not sure where the line begins and where it ends.

That was the good thing about a mask—the job was over as soon as it came off until the next night. But regardless if he were Nightwing or not, you'd always be there, waiting for him to come home.

"Looking for something?"

He turns, an easy smile on his face, but it threatens to fall off his face when his eyes catch on the photograph slotted between Helena's fingers.

"You went through my things."

Helena promptly ignores him. "She's pretty." Then she holds it out for him to take.

Dick plucks it out of her fingers, and his eyes latch onto your smile, the one that reaches your eyes. Titus is licking your hand, and Damian is just outside the frame, and the edge of the stick he holds is blurry in the corner. His thumb closes over your face, and the hole in his chest grows a little bit bigger.

"An old fling," he says smoothly, because you are a memory he'd like to keep to himself. 

Helena looks at him, unimpressed, and he inwardly sighs.

"She must be something special," she raises an eyebrow. "But I hope for your sake, she's the forgiving type."

* * *

The blade glints in the light as you press it down on your palm until blood, warm and wet and red, trickles down to the floor.

* * *

Jason joins you on a ledge somewhere on one of Gotham's skyscrapers.

"He's back." He says as he drops down next to you, passing his helmet back and forth between his hands to keep them occupied. He's unusually restless today. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was...anxious.

He must have come from patrol because there's a splatter of blood on his pants, but you keep quiet. You suspect there's a snarky comment or two about how the original boy wonder takes after Batman more than he'd like to admit, resting on his tongue but he keeps quiet and eyes you warily.

"I know." You say quietly. "I saw him."

He scoffs, a hard edge to his jaw that lets you know he's unhappy as he mutters something that sounds suspiciously like 'Dick living up to his namesake'.

"I saw him too— I was with Tim. Couldn't believe our damn eyes." His eyes are trained on the city below, and his voice is controlled as he says, "I went to his funeral. _You_ went to his funeral. How could he—" He snaps his mouth shut, and his body goes rigid.

He squeezes his helmet so tightly his knuckles turn white, and you put your hand over his. He goes slack at your touch, and shakes his head, the tension leaving his body at once.

"And here I thought most people only died once. Just when a guy was starting to feel special," he huffs, but there's a note of resigned acceptance in his voice that brings a smile to your face. Through thick and thin, in the end they are brothers, and he can deny it all he wants, but you know Jason begrudgingly loves them all.

"Are you okay?"

He exhales in disbelief. "I'm not the one you should be worrying about." You can hear the hidden question in his voice.

A drop of rain falls on your arm, your smile melting away. Dick had been calling frequently.

 _I_ _'ve missed the sound of your voice_ , he admitted sheepishly when you had answered the phone yesterday. 

_Dick..._

_I know, I know...you need time, but—ah, shit, gotta go. Love you._

You close your eyes as the wind whips around your face, and you tilt your head back. The whiplash of Dick's reappearance has you reeling. It weighs heavy on your shoulders and you realize you're _tired_. 

It feels like your heart has been through a wringer, continuously jerked back and forth. Just when you had started to grieve, Dick was back, and now you're confused because when you wake up in the mornings, Jason is there, and sometimes when you wake up earlier than him—which isn't often— you watch him sleep. He looks so serene in the mornings you can't help but let your eyes linger on the lines of his face, and maybe it's wrong but you can't imagine anybody else next to you. 

You hear your name, and open your eyes. Jason's hand is on your arm, and he's right in front of you, worried gaze caught on your face. Rain starts falling down more steadily, and maybe he says something about how you should get out of the rain, but you don't hear him because you're too entranced by his face. **  
**

He's so close, your shoulders are touching, and his warmth washes over you.

Jason blinks. Once, twice, as if noticing your close proximity. He clears his throat, and you think he jokingly murmurs something about respecting your privacy, lips tugged up in a forced smile, and he's about to draw back, but you lean forward.

You kiss him.

It's chaste, and could be construed as platonic, but it's not. His eyes widen just a fraction, freezing, and your heart drops. You pull away, and the two of you stare at each other. 

"I'm sorry," you say softly, eyes never leaving his face. You wonder what he's thinking. You wonder if you've just crossed an irreparable line. "I shouldn't h—"

His lips crash against yours with a passionate fervor that makes you breathless, as a tendril of heat uncurls in the pit of your stomach. And then his hands are on your face, and the gesture is so tender, your heart squeezes in your chest. He inhales you greedily, lips chapped, and he smells like cigarettes and aftershave.

You tilt your head to allow him better access, a strangled noise leaving his mouth, and then you're _ravenous_ and you want him. You want Jason with all his flaws and scars and cutting humor; the way his lips curl when he tries too hard not to smile at something amusing; all his Shakespearian quips and literary references—

And you want him to want you too.

* * *

He’s taking advantage of you.

The thought hits Jason like a fucking freight train just as you moan in his mouth. The noise goes straight to his cock and he hates himself for it because you're Dick's, and you always have been.

He shouldn't be doing this because he knows Dick loves you in a way the original boy wonder has never loved anybody before, but none of that matters because you're hurt even though you do a hell of a job hiding it, and so small in his arms, and he knows better than most that logic has no place in a wounded heart.

Bruce had hurt him once too.

Then your fingers are sliding through his hair and pulling him impossibly closer and he's utterly gone, engrossed in the way your lips feel on his. 

He's dreamed about this. Touching you.

Sometimes it's fairly innocuous, a smile here and there. Sometimes you're naked, writhing on his bed, nails raking down his back as you gasp out his name.

Sometimes when he wakes up early, he watches the sunlight catch on your face and stares. 

You separate, breathing heavily. He can feel the warm heat of your breath against his face in the ensuing cold, your eyes squeezed shut.

Something in his gut tightens at the fact that you might be picturing _Dick_ , not him. Imagining Dick’s face behind your closed eyes, using him as nothing more than a _replacement_ . A bitter laugh bubbles in his throat, because, well, _that’s not new_. 

He’s a _dick_ , no fucking pun intended. He shouldn't have kissed you back. It was a momentary lapse in judgement because he had wanted you so badly, and now he's fucked up. You're vulnerable and reeling at Dick's sudden reappearance, and you must be confused and elated and everything in between. He took advantage of you—

Your eyes flutter open, unfocused at first. Your body is flush against him, and there are raindrops on the tip of your eyelashes. His hand automatically goes to palm your cheek, and your tears are warm.

When you meet his eyes, he's taken aback by the clarity in them. Your eyes are trained on his face and for a moment he's unusually self-conscious. What are you thinking? Do you regret it? Do you hate him?

Are you disappointed it's him? 

His eyes falls down to your lips—to escape eye contact if anything— and that was a mistake, because they're bruised and swollen, and just as pretty as he imagined they'd be.

“Jason” you breathe out, cold puffs of air escaping your mouth. "Look at me."

He drags his gaze upwards and you look at him, lips curved into a ghost of a smile. You look... _happy,_ and the sight takes his breath away. There's no inkling of confusion, nothing resembling regret in your eyes. He recognizes that look from one too many stolen glances in your direction.

Your eyes are trained on him, and only him, and he can see his silhouette reflected in your eyes.

You want _him_.

"Jason," you repeat, and he closes his eyes to sear the sound of his name on your lips into his memory. 

* * *

You're avoiding him.

Well—

Maybe, avoiding is the wrong word. You look at him like you don't quite know what to do with him, and your eyes are sad, and Dick _hates_ that look, and he hates himself even more for putting it there.

It had been hard, focusing on the mission at hand like Bruce had driven into him all those years ago. Even now, amnesia or not, the low timbre of Bruce's voice invades from the depths of his brain whenever he's in the trouble.

_Focus, Robin._

It's worse than torture to have you within arm's reach and not being able to touch you the way he wants to. You're right in front of him, wearing a pretty blue dress that clings to you in all the right places and his fingers twitch because he still remembers unzipping his favorite black dress just before he died, his fingers ghosting over the curve of your spine right before he fucked you into his bed. 

_I need time._

He wonders what scheme Jason has roped you into today. He knows the two of you have been working together which is nothing new, but Tim's stare had lingered on him a second too long, a flash of sympathy breaking through his steely anger at Dick's sudden reappearance. 

_We made a **promise** Dick. No secrets, remember? Secrets are Bruce, not us._

He's moving before he realizes it, eyes trained on your back. He won't let you walk away. Not this time.

You're talking to Tyrell Bowden, an oil tycoon with deep pockets whose wealth is concentrated in Dubai. He's also the main supplier of illegal arms to Gotham's underbelly. Well— _trying_ to, anyway. It's hard to have a coherent conversation with a man leering down your dress, but you pretend to be none the wiser.

Someone closes in behind him. Before he can smother a groan, there's a hand on his shoulder, and a sultry, " _Why, hello._ "

He turns, fake smile high on his face. He's in disguise, but he recognizes her immediately. Her perfume makes him dizzy, and he can smell the alcohol on her breath as he says, "Ms. Dunne."

Lucinda Dunne. Socialite and diamond heiress, and someone he had been well acquainted with as Dick Grayson.

He's about to tell her that he has business to attend to, and his eyes flicker back to where you are, but her eyes sharpens as if sensing his momentary weakness.

"So you know who I am," she purrs, red lips curving. "But I don't think I've had the pleasure of meeting you..."

"Sebastian," the lie glides off his tongue too easily and he wants to attribute it to his Agent 37 persona, but he's always been a good liar. "Sebastian Callahan."

Her smile grows wider, and her hand drops down to his abdomen.

He clears his throat.

"Well, Sebastian—" she halts to a sudden stop, mouth ajar. "Who is _that?"_

He has to do a double take at first, because he knows his little brother, and Jason doesn't exactly do black tie galas, but lo and behold, there he in a sharp suit, wielding an even sharper smile, as his arm slides into the crook of your waist with a casual ease that has Dick releasing a pointed exhale.

Justifications surface. The two of you have always been close. He left you alone. Jason is just a friend. The two of you are just working together.

"Whatta _hunk!_ Those Waynes are a different breed. I heard that one, like, died or something." He hears Lucinda saying distantly. "You should've seen the eldest. Dick Grayson. Did I tell you he was a good friend? God rest his soul."

Jason says something, and his smile turns menacing. Bowden whitens, backing up a step. You look between them, dry amusement painting your face for a split second, before you smile and work Bowden with pretty words. Bowden straightens, and bids you and only you, adieu, with a kiss on your hand, and Jason smothers a laugh.

Bowden hightails it out of there.

Next to him Lucinda has gone off on a tangent about his identity as Nightwing, and the thought of his unmasked alter ego stings him—

"— _like_ _who would've thought he was Nightwing? I always thought he was hiding something. A smile that pretty..."_

He should reply. Something flirty and fun and teasing. Maybe even a wink for good measure, but he can't tear his eyes off Jason's hand, and his fingers curled around your waist.

You look up at Jason, and your smile is soft and genuine, and it still steals his breath away. _It reaches your eyes._

He tears his eyes away, heart plummeting. The blood rushes into his ears with a roar, and he's falling.

"I, uh, have to go." 

Lucinda frowns. "Already?"

But he's already lost in the crowd.

* * *

"Dick?" Your eyes are bleary with sleep, but still cognizant of your surroundings.

"Hey," he says softly, "I didn't want to wake you."

You blink the exhaustion away. "I fell asleep."

You must have passed out, curled up on the bed you used to share with the man standing across you

Jason had encouraged you to go, to step foot in the place that had once been your greatest refuge. You hadn't expected Dick to show up. Now the two of you are staring at each other, in the apartment the two of you used to—or still, you suppose—share in Bludhaven. 

You had been planning on talking to him, but he disappeared after the black tie event at the Gotham Museum of Fine Arts, and you lost your chance.

"So," he starts casually, and there's no judgement on his face, "you and Jason, huh?"

You kissed Jason, and you hadn't regretted it. It had been the first thing that felt _right_ , and you think you love him, but a part of you will always love Dick, even if you can't anymore.

"Jason was—"

"There?"

Something dark passes over his face and you know he hadn't meant it to slip out that way.

_Bitter._

You stare at him, a lump in your throat. Your heart _aches_ , and you think it might be breaking a second time.

"Oh Dick," you say softly, and your eyes are sad. "Not like that."

The air is oppressively heavy. You don't know how—where—to start. You think about the numbness and how you were terrified that you'd never feel ever again. Even now that terror lives just underneath your skin, so close to the surface that you can taste it on your tongue whenever Jason is out of arms reach.

You know it's unhealthy, obsessive even, but Jason understands. You reach out for him in the nights, and he wordlessly tugs you closer into his arms. 

"You _died_ , Dick. I saw them..." You force the lump in your throat down.

He stares at you, expression equal parts pained and hurt.

"They lowered you into the ground, and I was alone." Dropping your gaze, you take a shuddering breath. "I thought it was my fault," you whisper, voice wavering. "I thought it was the universe's way of telling me I didn't deserve to be happy, that you made me too ha—" you break off, and your face crumbles.

Dick's face softens, and he's in front of you in an instant, a comforting hand on your back. You automatically throw your arms around him as quiet sobs escape you, and then there's nothing else to say.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ he murmurs, over and over, and there are tears on your neck. 

* * *

"You were in London with Helena." You whisper to him in the dark, as you watch the contour of his body inhale and exhale. You know he's awake, only pretending to be asleep; you could feel his eyes on you as you slept. 

You once admitted to him that you slept better in his arms than anywhere else.

Dick stills, breath faltering, and in the quiet of the night, you can almost let yourself believe that everything will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> i listened to rosyln (bc the twilight ost slaps) for 6 hours straight so i decided to pull up this wip so here is the angsty? jason/dick love triangle angst i said i'd write four years ago whoops—
> 
> if I were writing this from scratch, there are definitely a lot of things I'd change, but i decided to keep the abrupt, dissociative-like formatting as an ode to four years since i started writing this so I didn't change it up that much
> 
> anyway! if you're here from my original nightlight series, i will be rewriting the entire series (and maybe adding more installments) because my old writing makes me cringe! so there's that!
> 
> there was supposed to be a sex scene, and I was halfway through writing it when I was like wait a moment?? this does not make sense, so unfortunately it was scrapped smh.
> 
> also yeah, ik damian was technically supposed to be dead or smt but dc's timeline is so confusing i literally don't bother.  
> also see: canon is my bitch.
> 
> hmu @ my tumblr [here!](http://seoafin.tumblr.com)


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